


The Shelf

by Stedler2 (k9cat)



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series), Thomas Sanders, Thomas Sanders (Video Blogging RPF) - Fandom
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, based of a tumblr post, panic attack that's not quite a panic attack?, updating the tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-04
Updated: 2017-08-04
Packaged: 2018-12-10 23:58:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11702541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/k9cat/pseuds/Stedler2
Summary: Emotions can be bottled, and as the logical trait, Logan has many bottles on a shelf.Maybe too many bottles on that shelf.Based off a post on tumbr





	The Shelf

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!  
> a new fic, yay!  
> So this is based off of a prompt/question thread I found on prinxietys tumblr and it demanded to be written, thus I did so, the post can be found here:  
> https://prinxietys.tumblr.com/post/163626648853/do-you-think-logan-has-a-bunch-of-bottles-of 
> 
> I want to thank parsnipit for looking this over and proofreading it, they are awesome, and if there are any grammar/spelling mistakes still, let me know. 
> 
> Enjoy!

 

The shelf had appeared one day when Logic wasn’t paying attention. It didn’t even garner his attention, usually new shelves would soon fill themselves with books and little nick nacks that were deemed important to keep.

 

It was nondescript. Plain, and it fit the colour of all the other shelves in his room stacked high with books and things. It stayed empty.

 

Until a bottle appeared on it. It was a small bottle, no taller than his pinky finger and stopped with a brown cork. The little paper stuck on the side read ‘embarrassment’ when he went to investigate the glass bottle which contained a lime green, _stuff_. He couldn’t figure out if it was liquid or not when he picked it up and the green swirled around in the bottle. It confused him, but he dismissed it. It was no harm to him, or anybody else, thus he left it alone.

 

That was years ago now, and the shelf was now the most colourful thing in his room; second place was the bookshelves.

 

Logan now had quite an interesting assortment of bottles on the shelf ranging in colour, size, and shape. All full of that not-quite-liquid-not-quite-gas _stuff_ he could not figure out . It perplexed him so, to look at these things he did not understand. They distracted him, and made his thoughts wander when he wanted to focus. He shoved down the bubbly frustration he was feeling, closed the book he was trying to read, and rubbed his forehead, trying to make the oncoming headache go away. He was supposed to be _Logic_ , not emotions, and he saw a tall skinny bottle with a twist cap appear beside the other assortment of bottles. Letting go of a sigh, he set the book aside on the side table beside his chair. He wasn’t going to be able to continue with it tonight.

 

It was late into the evening and everyone was in their rooms after a long day of filming the next video. They were planning to start editing tomorrow after a good night’s rest. Yet he couldn’t find himself tired enough to properly fall asleep, thus the reading, thus the distraction of the bottles of things he didn’t understand, thus the new one appearing. Logan picked his way around the stacks of books and memories and boxes of facts and information organised in a seemingly scattered way around his room, he knew where everything was despite how messy it looked. He made his way to the shelf.

 

He picked up the fragile skinny tube of sour yellow, reading the label that read ‘frustration’. Of course. He put the bottle back carefully. He looked over the shelf of many colours. He just didn’t understand, and he did not like not understanding. It wasn’t him, and it confused him and made his chest feel tight in an uncomfortable way and made his stomach twist in knots because he knew he would never get an answer no matter how many ‘why’s’ and ‘how’s’ he asked. No, that wasn’t him, the ugly feeling in his chest wasn’t him, not for him, he wasn’t _made_ to deal with emotions. He couldn’t understand them, not matter how much he tried. Emotions were for Morality, and Anxiety, and even Creativity, but not him, not Logic, never Logan.

 

He pushed them back, left them alone and saw another bottle appear on his shelf. It was a wide bottle that tapered skinny at the top, very conical in shape. Inside was an ugly red-brown colour with the label reading ‘confusion/frustration’. Logan stepped away, not looking at all the labels that read amusement, fear, giddiness, disappointment, remorse, love, and more. All the emotions he just didn’t understand, for he was Logic, thought, thinking, the mind, no room for those icky, sticky, confusing emotions. That tired him out more quickly than any social interaction.

 

He flopped on to his bed, not caring that he should change into his pajamas, and let the lights dim in his room to darkness, the moon hanging in his window the only source of light. A night’s rest always helped him clear his mind and refresh for the next day. He was very close to slipping into sleep when he heard an ominous creaking from across the room, coming from the shelf, pulling him back to awareness. He ignored the sound.

 

Sometimes when a bottle for a particularly heavy emotion appeared, the shelf would creak and groan until it accommodated the weight, and sometimes the sizes were deceptive. A large bottle could be very light, filled with orange ‘happiness’ and ‘joy’, and other would be small bottles, no more than a few ounces, heavy like a teaspoon of a neutron star, filled with ‘fear’ and ‘worry’ written in the smallest fonts. Yet the shelf always held, his resolve willing the wood to stay strong and not splinter under the pressure.

 

The sound settled, and he let go of a tenseness he didn’t realize he had been holding. That may have been the incorrect thing to do. The shelf groaned under the weight again, sounding like a boat complaining about the water it was sinking into. That was the sound of stress, and it wasn’t a good one. He shoved down the small panic and fear that had been slowly rising up in him since the first creak of wood. Now was not the time to worry about the shelf breaking, since it should never break, and even if it ever did, he would need a clear head to deal with the mess. The little bottle of blue that appeared on the edge, taking up the last of the space, was the figurative last straw on the camel's back.

 

The shelf itself stayed strong as ever, but the bracket that held up the shelf and supported it, did not.

 

It was like watching slow motion, as he saw the wooden bracket fail under the weight, breaking off the wall. The shelf tipped with no support, sliding each and every bottle, big and small, tall and short, square and round, off of the wood like a waterfall, tumbling and racing to the ground in a confused rainbow. The frail glass shattering as it met unforgiving books and boxes and floor. He assumed the sound was a grand smash of clinking bottles and crunching glass, and of a plank of heavy wood falling off the last bracket and crushing any surviving bottles with its weight with a thud. He assumed that was what it sounded like, unable to comprehend the sounds past the rushing of blood in his ears. As soon as the first bottle cracked, Logic was swamped with all the suppressed emotions of years past. All the buried feelings, all the bottled not-understanding was released and feeling them all at once, unable to process them.

 

Overwhelming panic made it difficult to breath in the first place, but mixed with the euphoria of happiness and the screaming rage of anger, he was stuck between hysterical laughter smashed together with pitiful crying, gasping for air in between it all. It was all so confusing and he couldn’t understand any of what was happening, and that was making him scared and that was making him worried and for the life of him he could not push it down so he could think. When he tried it welled up, even more vengeful than before, and he could not stop laughing through the tears that were rolling down his face unimpeded.

 

The sounds he didn’t hear must had been loud. Through tear-obscured lenses, he saw Morality throw his door open wide. Ever the emotional one, he looked worried and concerned in his cat onesie, glasses askew, looking half awake, followed by Prince pushing past, sword brandished and ready to fight despite being in his own pajamas and looking half awake as well. Anxiety was a step behind, staying clear of the swinging metal, the only one looking awake and composed. Logic flinched back at the large movements, everything was _too much_ and he couldn’t focus on the outside with how clouded his thinking was on the inside, trying to sort out what was happening and his heart clenched and his stomach felt queasy like he was going to puke and his eyes were scratchy with salty tears. The headache was coming back in full vengeance and now his glasses were smudged with fingerprints and tears from his hands covering his face and pulling at his hair and _too much confusion_.

 

The others were talking. Their mouths were moving. They were looking at him, looking at each other, looking around the room, but he couldn’t hear past the blood rushing in his ears and over his panicked enraged laughter. Morality spotted the broken mess of emotions on the floor first, finding the little labels without getting cut on the shards. Somehow, he knew the heart looked surprised, and why does he know that look was filled with empathy and love and worry and- Patton was right in front of him. Arms wrapped tight around him in a firm, secure, warm embrace. He took a stuttered breath through his gasping laugh-screaming-cry, stiffening at the contact because it was _too much feeling,_ but it wasn’t enough, yet it was too much and it was _all so confusing_.

 

He felt the low vibrations of the soothing words he knew Patton was saying instead of hearing them, and it helped so much. It was better already, Patton was made for emotions, the heart, the deep feelings. The eldest knew what he was doing.

 

Logic leaned into the hug, letting the heart feel the overwhelming emotions that wracked the brain. Patton was encouraging him to _feel_ them, let them out, cry, laugh, scream, don’t bottle them up. Virgil sat beside him soon after, wrapping an arm around him and leaning his head on Logan’s shoulder despite how much the worried trait liked his personal space. The panic was still there, the worry and guilt and shame and fear still in turmoil, but it changed. Not uncontrolled, not running rampant anymore, it was grounded and a faint semblance of organised thought makes its way through the wake of emotions still turning inside of him.

 

He was breathing better, and through the calming rush in his ears he heard the faint humming of a soft tune mindlessly weaving a melody through the air. Roman sat on his other side, free of his sword, and the harmony follows the melody, the creative side grounding him alongside the emotion oriented traits. The turmoil in his head and heart slowly settled as he lets the last of the crying run out and the pitiful giggles putter away and he is left feeling almost numb. Echoes of all the unknown, not understood things flick by here and there, but they are tempered by the others and everything settles into a peaceful, content feeling he thinks is called comfort.

 

They sit on his bed for a while, and he listens to the song Patton and Roman are weaving together for what feels like hours. He knows though, that it can’t have been more than one since the shelf first broke. He took a deep breath and sat up straight, breaking the hug from Patton and shifting Virgil off his shoulder. Patton reached forward and pulled off his glasses, the soft fabric of his onesie wiping his face of tears and cleaning his glasses of streaks and prints.

 

“There you are,” Patton said quietly with a smile when he returns the glasses, ending the song. “All better now.”

 

He nods in agreement, not trusting his voice right now to be a steady, sure tone. They stay quiet in his room, words not necessarily needed right now, just sitting, together, stray emotions flickering in and out here and there, leftover tears and half weary smiles drifting past in the tail end of the storm. It was late, and he woke the others out of their sleep by evidence of their sleep wear, and it was getting later every minute they sat there. They should all be asleep, not here comforting him. Thomas won’t have a good day tomorrow if they didn’t rest and recharge as well. Thus, he puts up a face, a facade of being in control and composed. He straightens his back and starts building the walls back up and shoving down the feelings that belong to Patton, Virgil and Roman, not him, not the brain. As usual, a bottle appears on the shelf. A new shelf, same place, same look, but new, looking a little more robust. Thicker wood and stronger brackets and a square bottle of purple appeared on top, sitting center stage and proud of it.

 

The shuffling sound drew all their attention in the quiet and Virgil made a face, shadow passing over his features as he frowns, dark and menacing. Sliding off the bed he made his way to the new shelf and plucks the new bottle off. The anxious trait did not even look at what the little paper stuck to the side said as he whipped his arm around and threw the glass at the wall, shattering it. He is flooded with the emotions he just shoved away, and his face falls and his walls were not strong enough and he slumps back into the hug Patton still wanted to give, tired and feeling a weird mix of emotions still.

 

“You are never going to make bottles again,” Virgil said with a quiet fury. “It’s not healthy and I push down enough emotions for the both of us. You should never have to do that.”

 

“Virgil is right, you don’t have to bottle it up, you are allowed to feel,” Patton assured with a gentle tenderness.

 

“I- I don’t, know _how_.” He heard his voice waver no matter how much he tried to keep it stable.

 

“What do you mean?” Roman asked, confused.

 

“I, I don’t understand them, emotions. I don’t know how to comprehend them and make sense of them, I don’t feel, I’m not supposed to, I’m _Logic_ ,” he rambled a bit, trying to convey his not-understanding and confusion and frustration with the one thing he could not ever make sense of, the dreaded things mixing up again in his chest and hurting again. Patton must have felt it also, as he nodded for Anxiety to come sit back down and pulled Roman even closer so that the fanciful trait was also hugging him.

 

“It’s okay that you don’t understand, that means you can learn then, and you love learning,” Patton soothed.

 

“I tried, and it never makes sense.” He sounded brittle, exhausted, and his head was pounding from the crying or his headache or both.

 

“Have you asked any of us?”

 

He shook his head no. He didn’t want to sound emotional.

 

“Ask us then. Maybe we can help you understand them better instead of bottling them up, okay?” The heart offered. Logan nodded, anything to understand he would accept.

 

Patton started humming again, soft, and low, and Roman soon joined in again. The moonlight illuminated the room enough for them to pull back the sheets on his bed and fall into the comfort there, and that was okay. Roman was here to help make sense of it all and Virgil would protect them and Patton could smile for him, and if that was what he needed to know to start understanding emotions and not bottle them up, then it didn’t seem wrong to feel at all. And even though in the morning they were all slightly sluggish from the lack of sleep, he couldn’t help but feel better when he saw that the shelf was still empty.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


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